


Promise of Lies

by Dragomir



Series: Requiem for a Dying Song [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Brainwashing, Dehydration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Guns, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Isolation, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Psychological Torture, Starvation, Swords, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass and Jeremy will do anything to make Miles come home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise of Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's a new story! Miles comes home. Just...not like he planned.
> 
> Un-beta'ed, so quibble away. You know the drill.

Miles paces around his small cell, counting out the steps as loud as he can, just to hear the sound of a human voice, even if it's his own. He's been in here for…four days, maybe, if he's counting by meals—one meal a day, more or less if they're fucking with his sense of time. He wouldn't put it past Bass and Jeremy to do that. He's already seen what they can do—they're the ones who made Strausser…important.

The former general sighs and slides down the wall, staring at the door through the darkness. It opens twice a day—unless they're fucking with his sense of time, which they probably are—to deliver food. There's a small slot at the bottom where the plate gets shoved in. He gets, at most, two minutes of light, twice a day. Miles would lay on the floor to see more of it, or maybe catch a glimpse of whoever's delivering food, just so he can see that he's not going crazy locked up here in the dark, but there are rats on the floor. And mold—he's seen the mold. It's part of why he's grateful he's still got his boots on, and can sit on the balls of his feet.

There was a time when he'd locked prisoners in here, in this very cell—the ones that he'd wanted to watch break—just so he could see the look of hopes on their faces as they encountered the patches of wet on the wall or the floor. More than one had died, licking the wall in the hopes that it was water trickling down from a crack in the ceiling, or from a blacked-out window they couldn't see. He wasn't that desperate to leave.

Yet.

It's been two weeks, maybe. It's been three days since his guards stopped delivering food, and five since they stopped giving him water. Miles can feel his tongue beginning to swell, and he licks his lips constantly in a quest for some kind of moisture. He leans against the wall, hands tucked up under his armpits to keep them from freezing. The former general knows the effects of dehydration. He knows that he's getting cold because his body can't regulate his core temperature without water, even though he's probably burning up while his mind tells him he's freezing to death.

The mold on the walls is beginning to look like a disturbingly appealing way to get out of this hell by the tenth day without water. That's about the time Miles passes out.

He wakes up in a soft bed. There's a thick, warm blanket covering him from the hips down, and at least six pillows under his head and shoulders. Soft white bandages are wrapped around his wrists, where he'd pulled too tightly at the cuffs that had been locked around his wrists.

Jeremy is on his left side, blonde hair spilling over his forehead. The other man's chest moves up and down in time with his breathing, even and deep in true sleep. Like this, it's almost hard to picture him as the heartless bastard who told Miles that Strausser had a gun to Charlie's head, and if he didn't give up, the sergeant would shoot her.

(Strausser hadn't had a gun to Charlie's head, Miles had discovered as he was led away. He'd had to be knocked out to keep him from killing the man. Strausser had had his niece pressed against a wall with one arm. The sergeant's other hand had been in the girl's pants, and there was an all too familiar look on the man's face. Rachel had been unconscious, a hammer lying next to her on the floor.)

Miles shifted a little, looking to his right. Asleep, Bass looked angelic. Blonde curls spilled across his face, mussed up from sleep. It was like being back in the barracks at Parris Island, after Bass had stopped shaving his head as part of a lost bet. The younger man had gotten in trouble after his blonde hair had turned into an afro that he couldn't tame with any amount of gel, and he'd cut it down to manageable levels again. After the blackout, Bass had started slicking his hair back so the curls rested at the nape of his neck. They didn't stay stuck in his sleep, though.

The former general felt a small, nostalgic smile form around his lips and he lifted a hand to play with his old friend's hair. Bass shifted and grabbed his wrist, blue eyes snapping open. Miles gasped in pain as Bass squeezed tightly, a dark look on his face.

"What were you going to do, Miles?" Bass asked, disentangling himself from Miles' hold. "Break my neck and try to escape?"

Miles shook his head, trying to free himself from Bass' grip. "F…fuck's sake!" he rasped, trying to jerk away as he felt the bones in his wrist begin grinding together. Jeremy came awake on his other side, enveloping him in a bone crushing hug. Miles gagged as the captain's hand wrapped around the column of his throat, cutting off his air.

Bass sighed and ran his hand through Miles' hair. "I wish we didn't have to do this, Miles, but…" He shrugged. "We want you back. We do…"

"We just don't know if we can trust you," Jeremy said, breath hot on Miles' ear. Miles gasped in pain as Jeremy latched onto the tendon between his neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to break the skin.

Bass cradled Miles' face in his hands. "If you are loyal to us, we'll be loyal to you." He pulled Miles up for a bruising kiss. "If not…" He smiled, a dark look. "Well, we can always hand you over to Major Neville. I hear he's kind of pissed about you trying to kill his wife."

Miles jerked, gagging as the pressure on his throat increased and the edges of his vision began turning grey. Bass kissed him again, gently, as he passed out.

"But I want you too much for that…"

The former general awoke in the cell again. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. His clothes were missing, and the cell was freezing. Miles had to wonder if he'd hallucinated the scene in Bass' bedroom, and decided he had. The bite mark on his neck was probably from one of the rats…

He crouched down on the balls of his feet, one arm wrapped around his shins, the other around the back of his neck. He was freezing, he was hungry, he was thirsty, and his heart was aching. The hallucination in the tunnels had been bad enough, but the dream… The dream had been torture.

Because, just for a few minutes, it had been like being home.

Miles drifts off again. After another five days in the cell—days where the food doesn't interest even the rats—he begins to hallucinate again. Jeremy is there, running a wet comb through his hair. Miles shivers, feeling the water trickle down the back of his neck. (It's probably just the mold, or blood—he could have scratched himself.) Then, it's Bass who's there, chafing his hands gently, a look of concern on his face as he tells Miles that the man looks cold. Miles whimpers in pain as feeling rushes back to his hands when Bass—not his brother, but more his lover, especially after the blackout—puts a mug of hot, rich broth in his hands and tells him to drink. He does, greedily. (He's hallucinating good food again. Miles remembers the taste, though—Bass' favorite cook made soup just like this. But that's not possible, because Bass doesn't give things like this to prisoners.)

He's seriously contemplating licking the walls, for moisture or for death, by the time the door—the actual door, not the slot at the bottom—opens again. He's not sure how many days it's been. Miles holds his hands up to his face, pressing himself against the wall. The brand over his heart—the one he and Jeremy share, because they got incredibly boozed up one night and decided they needed them too, in a place only Bass would ever see—aches.

Maybe he's in Georgia, or the Plains Nations. This could be Trenton, New Jersey, after that fucked up battle where he got shot. Miles doesn't know where he is. It's a small, dark cell. He hallucinates that his best friends—his lovers—are there. Miles whimpers in agony as the guard drag him out of the cell, into light that's so bright it's painful. Maybe they'll finally shoot him.

Except…

No, that can't be right. Charlie! Where the hell is Charlie?! Miles jerks in his captors' grips, trying to remember when he last saw his niece. It was… It was…

He can't remember.

He can't remember the last time he saw his niece. Miles stops struggling and hangs limply between the men dragging him down the hallway. This must be Trenton. Or…or somewhere similar? It's too cold to be Iraq or Afghanistan, and there are oil lamps flickering on the walls. It must be Trenton, or Georgia, or the Plains Nations.

Where are Bass and Jeremy?

Miles shivers as he's thrown into a cold, tiled room. There are more people there, but they're blurry through the tears staining his vision. One of them pulls and shoves him, little by little, into a large tub. Miles relaxes a little as she begins running soap through his hair, although he struggles when she shoves him under the water to wash it out. He's a little worried that his captors are taking such great pains to wash the filth and grime off him. It…it feels _wrong_.

But it's not wrong. It's not…is it?

Where are Bass and Jeremy? Are they in another room, getting the same treatment?

The guards pull him out of the tub and throw a set of clothes at him. Miles catches them clumsily and pulls them on with shaking hands. There are soft grey trousers that cling to his damp hips, and a worn blue shirt that… He inhales the scent, eyelids fluttering and his eyes roll back in pleasure as the familiarity of the scent registers.

He's not in Trenton. His guards must have brought him home. Jeremy's here somewhere… He has to be—Jeremy's the one who wouldn't want Bass to see him looking beaten and dirty and un-general-like. Miles relaxes considerably as the guards stand on either side of him. He's still too weak to walk on his own, and is quietly grateful for their support on either side of him, although he'll never admit it.

Jeremy and Bass are in Bass' room, seated at a table loaded with food. Miles sinks to his knees after the guards have shut the doors behind him, trying not to sob in relief as he sees the familiar faces. He's home. Oh god help him, he's _home_.

He thinks Charlie should be there, but that's not…right, is it? He hasn't seen her since she was four… Has he?

But he brushes the thoughts away, and breaks down sobbing. Jeremy and Bass are on either side of him, pulling him up gently and whispering calming things to him. Jeremy passes him a gun.

"We shouldn't have taken so long to find you, General," Jeremy murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss into his jaw. "Fucking rebels tortured you pretty bad."

Bass has one arm wrapped around Miles' waist, and his head is resting against the other man's shoulder. "We shouldn't have listened to Clayton. Stupid bitch."

Miles freezes at Nora's name. No…no, she was helping him… What was she helping him with? He doesn't remember. He looks at the gun in his hands, and tightens his hands around it. Of course. Nora. Nora is a rebel—they'd kept her around, even after they'd found out about where her sympathies lay, because they needed to feed the rebels false information. Did she slip her leash…?

"I want my sword," Miles rasps, tone dark. That bitch is going to pay. Jeremy takes the gun presses Miles' sword into his hands, and the general slides his fingers into the familiar grip, sighing in relief at the comfortable feel of the pommel guard. He knows this grip—it was his, specially made. He had to _kill_ for this sword…

"We shouldn't have taken so long," Bass whispers into his shoulder, free hand coming up to cup Miles' face. "I'm so sorry love. We…we listened to the wrong person." Miles presses a gentle kiss to Bass' forehead, eyes hard and cold.

Nora has to die. Stupid bitch. Was she _trying_ to get him killed, after _everything_ he'd done for her?!

"Where is she?" Miles hisses, hand tightening around the sword's pommel. Something's not right about this… He frowns, before the feeling passes. Jeremy is next to him, and so is Bass. They're both warm, comforting presences. It's reassuring. He knows what's wrong now.

Nora is kneeling in the center of another room, bound and gagged. Her eyes widen at the sight of Miles stalking across the room, naked blade in his hand. She begins shaking her head, trying to back away from him. Her tone, from what he can make out, is almost pleading.

Miles runs her through, a look of bored disinterest on his face. It doesn't feel right, but… No, it's right.

Jeremy presses a kiss to his jaw as he withdraws the sword from Clatyon's chest. Bass pulls him down for a possessive kiss.

Miles shivers as they run their hands along several bite marks along his shoulders and spine. This isn't…

No.

It's right.

He's home.

**Author's Note:**

> So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Miles will ever realize he got broke by his best friends? Drop a line and let me know!
> 
> Did anyone die?


End file.
